


My Friend Thinks You're Cute

by whovianmuse



Series: Teen Wolf [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 02:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19843882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: A Sterek College AUAnd that's when Stiles sees him, standing in the middle of the crowd, swathed in a black leather jacket, eyes alight as he flashes Stiles the most dazzlingly perfect smile. Derek The Music Major. The guy Stiles has had a massive crush on ever since they shared a class together in Stiles's freshman year. The guy who went on to graduate later that spring and leave town to go on tour with his band. The guy who composed such beautiful music that it made Stiles fall even more stupidly in love with him when he happened upon one of his live performances on YouTube the following summer. The guy who wrote the lyrics to the song he’s currently up on stage singing motherfucking karaoke to. Derek Hale, Beacon Hills sweetheart, local legend, and international rising star.





	My Friend Thinks You're Cute

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction inspired by _Teen Wolf_. Respective concepts, characters, and settings from the original source content belong to their creator(s). No copyright infringement is intended.  
>   
>  **Author’s Note:** It's been a hot minute since I last wrote Sterek fic, but this idea popped into my head a few days ago, and I honestly couldn't imagine a more perfect ship that could bring it to life.

So yeah, Stiles is pretty sure he's going to kill his best friends. After two long, exhausting weeks of relentless badgering, Stiles had finally given in and agreed to accompany Scott and Danny to their stupid goddamn dorm party. He'd figured, _fuck it_ , he's a senior, he's so close to graduation he can almost _taste_ it, he can abandon his studies for one Saturday night and try to have a good time.

What he _hadn't_ factored in was his meddling, dumbass friends dragging him up on stage and announcing to the whole room that _he_ was the next karaoke performance of the night. Rolling his eyes at Scott and Danny's cheers, jeers, and catcalls, Stiles makes his way over to the monitor and begins flipping through their song selection. The overwhelming majority of it is early 2000's garbage with a few 80's power ballads and 90's pop remixes thrown in, and just when Stiles is about to resign himself to performing _Bye Bye Bye_ or _Don't Stop Believing_ in front of a crowd of judgmental drunken college kids, he comes across a newer track he'd _never_ expected to find in a karaoke lineup.

"Uh, hi," Stiles winces as the microphone gives an ear piercing screech, and the crowd grumbles and groans. "So, most of you probably haven't even heard of this song. The band's kind of new, only really started gaining traction about two or three years ago, I think? Fun fact for out-of-towners, their lead guitarist actually grew up in Beacon Hills and _went_ to this school. He also wrote the song I'm about to perform, which I've heard, like, dozens of times on some pretty popular radio stations, so I guess that means there's hope out there for the rest of us art students. Anyway, here's my horribly butchered rendition of the song _Triskelion_ by The Alphas."

Sweating bullets, Stiles clicks play and cradles the microphone in the palms of his shaking hands, eyes fixed resolutely to the monitor, not daring to look at the audience. The monitor displays an error message and gives him the blue screen of death, refusing the let the lyrics scroll across the screen, but it doesn't really matter, because Stiles knows them all by heart. 

The overhead lights cast the stage in a golden glow, blinding Stiles to the surrounding world so that the crowd is just a sea of blurred faces. For a moment, he can pretend that it's just him, alone in his dorm room, or in the driver's seat of his powder blue Jeep with the radio on full blast, and really give it his all. So he does. Stiles sings his heart out. And it's actually…well, not _great_ , but not _terrible_ , either. Much to his surprise, everyone starts cheering him on, singing at the top of their lungs along with him, and Stiles is delighted by the fact that they all seem to share his love for his favorite band.

And that's when Stiles sees him, standing in the middle of the crowd, swathed in a black leather jacket, eyes alight as he flashes Stiles the most dazzlingly perfect smile. _Derek The Music Major._ The guy Stiles has had a massive crush on ever since they shared a class together in Stiles's freshman year. The guy who went on to graduate later that spring and leave town to go on tour with his band. The guy who composed such beautiful music that it made Stiles fall even more _stupidly in love_ with him when he happened upon one of his live performances on YouTube the following summer. The guy who wrote the lyrics to the song he's currently up on stage singing _motherfucking karaoke_ to. Derek Hale, Beacon Hills sweetheart, local legend, and international rising star. Derek Hale, lead guitarist of The Alphas.

_Oh_

_My_

_God_

It's a feat of fucking heroics and sheer dumb luck that keeps Stiles's voice steady until the very end of the song, and then he's bolting off the stage and colliding face-first with a wall of muscle in the shape of his two best friends.

"Hey man, you did great up there!" Scott beams at him, his smile so warm and sincere, so filled with pride, that Stiles finds it difficult to stay mad at him. Stiles has known Scott since kindergarten, and he's pretty damn sure that Scott is an actual ray of sunshine in human form.

…and then there's Danny.

"Seriously, Stilinski. That was pretty damn impressive," Danny agrees with an air of genuine surprise. And honestly, coming from Danny, that's like, _god-tier_ praise. If Stiles wasn't freaking the fuck out, he'd probably take a moment to bask in it, ask if he can get it writing, and then gloat so hard it sours Danny's mood and makes him threaten to take it back.

"Dude, you are not going to _believe_ who I just saw," Stiles exclaims, one hand gripping each of their shoulders so that they're just standing there in the middle of the common room like an awkward triangle. 

"So, you remember that guy that— _oh my god_ , there he is," Stiles groans, bolting side to side in a panicked attempt to duck behind a corner, but as tragedy would have it, there aren't any corners in the epicenter of a room. Why aren't there ever any corners when you actually need them? Why do corners only ever seem to exist when you're in a rush and you're not paying attention and you bash your face into an inconveniently placed patch of hard plaster? There should at least be a column, or a couch, or _something_. In the end, he figures using Scott and Danny as a human shield is as good a hiding place as any.

" _Can you fucking not_ ," Danny growls as Stiles all but claws at his neck to peer over his shoulder. "Who are you even—"

Danny squints in the direction of a dark-haired man with pale green eyes and a chiseled jaw peppered with five o'clock shadow, backed into a far corner of the room, smiling awkwardly as a gaggle of fans bombard him with photo ops and autographs.

"Is that who I think it is?" Danny gasps dramatically, and there's something in the way his eyes crinkle around the edges, like he's enjoying a private joke, that makes Stiles quirk an eyebrow.

"Holy shit," Scott exclaims, eyes widening in theatrical surprise. "It's Derek The Music Major!"

"Yeah, well, it's Derek the fucking _sex god rock star_ now, isn't it?" Stiles practically moans, scrubbing his hands through his hair and burying his face into Scott's shoulder. "Ugh, he's even _more_ unattainable than he was before. How is that even possible? And like, more to the point, _why_ is he even _here_?"

"Oh, uh…" Scott's voice rises a half octave, a telltale sign that he's about to lie through his teeth and make it sound casual. "I think Derek's cousin goes here. Miguel, or something."

Stiles lifts his head up, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he fixes Scott with a scrutinizing glare. Scott keeps his gaze resolutely glued to the floor, looking for all the world like a guilt-ridden golden retriever who'd just been caught digging in the garden.

" _What,_ " Stiles spits, an entire world's emphasis on the _t._

"What?" Scott and Danny ask in mirrored tones of mock innocence.

"You…you guys _knew_ he was going to be here, didn't you?" Stiles sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"We… _might_ have heard something about that," Danny offers around an infuriatingly amused little chuckle.

"We overheard Miguel talking about it a couple of weeks ago," Scott bursts out, physically incapable of keeping this a secret for even a second longer. "Apparently, Derek and his bandmates are back in town for the summer, and they got invited to come and perform at his cousin's friend's party. _This_ party."

"And you guys thought it would be a _great_ idea for me to go up on stage and make an ass out of myself…singing one of Derek's songs… _in front of Derek_ ," Stiles says slowly, his tone positively _drenched_ in quietly seething sarcasm.

"Relax," Danny says, rolling his eyes. "What we did was get you _noticed_."

"Yeah, man," Scott jumps in with a barely contained goofy grin, trying and failing to look solemn and apologetic. "He was _totally_ checking you out. It was _so_ obvious."

"Didn't you see the way he kept smiling at you?" Danny asks.

"He was probably laughing his ass off at the dipshit butchering the fuck out of one of his songs," Stiles whines, smacking his head repeatedly into the side of Scott's shoulder.

"Ugh, you're impossible," Scott groans, rolling his eyes and fixing Danny with a pleading sort of look.

"Yeah, look, this whole _pity party_ thing you're got going on? It's _boring_ ," Danny scoffs, wrenching Stiles away from his makeshift hiding place and clapping both hands on either side of his shoulders. 

"You've been sweet on the guy for like, what…three and a half years now? If you won't take the chance and finally introduce yourself, then," Danny pauses, peering over Stiles's shoulder to stare resolutely at Scott, seconds passing as the two of them share some kind of bizarre, silent conversation over the top of Stiles's head that ends with Danny setting his lips into a determined line and giving Scott a curt nod.

"Scotty," he says with a melodramatic sigh. "I think it's about time we take matters into our own hands."

"Just like we rehearsed?" Scott replies with a crooked smile. Without warning, Scott and Danny each grab a hold of one of Stiles's arms and start marching him toward Derek's corner of the room. The ruckus of muffled shouting and flailing limbs that it causes scatters the crowd of fawning fans, clearing a direct path. 

Derek quirks an eyebrow as he stares back and forth between the three of them, taking in the perplexing but not altogether unwelcome sight of a guy with adorably disheveled dark brown hair, wide hazel eyes, and a blush as deep as his scarlet hooded sweatshirt, sandwiched in between two thoroughly amused smirking faces. 

The guy in the middle swallows thickly, and Derek watches with spellbound awe as his Adam's apple bounces along the curves of his mole and freckle dappled throat. His eyes glaze over as he imagines, for the briefest of seconds, what it might be like to graze his teeth along those curves. The sound of someone's voice breaks him out of his wandering thoughts, and Derek shakes his head as if to clear it.

"Hi," the guy on the right with the crooked smile and kind eyes addresses him. Name's McCall, if memory serves him. Derek vaguely remembers seeing the name printed across his jersey on the rare occasion he'd managed to make it to one of his cousin's lacrosse games.

"This is my friend," McCall informs him, gesturing to the mortified guy in the middle. _And this is must be_ … _Stilinski, #24,_ Derek muses. _Spends more time on the bench than out on the field_. "He loves your work. Big fan."

Instinctively, Derek goes into _Greeting Your Fans_ mode, smiles politely, and prepares himself for another flash of a camera, but then—

"Also, he thinks you're cute," McCall adds, a big goofy grin spreading across his face. "And I'm like 98% sure he's thought of you naked."

Stilinski splutters, turning toward McCall with a manic look in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm 110% sure," the guy to the left confirms with a barely contained smirk. _Mahealani._ This one, Derek _definitely_ knows. Miguel won't outright admit it, but he's got a bit of a thing for this guy. Blushes every time he walks by. "I literally walked in on him once while he was—"

"Anyway," McCall interjects, clapping a hand over Mahealani's mouth, eyes growing wide as he realizes, albeit a bit too late, that _that_ may have been taking it too far. "We're gonna go, and leave you two to get better acquainted."

"You're dead to me!" Stiles calls after them in a playful sing-song voice as his traitorous friends swagger off in the direction of the pong table, cackling madly, twin shit-eating grins plastered across their faces. Cheekbones prickling with the equivalent of an instant sunburn, Stiles slowly turns back toward Derek.

"Well," he says with mock cheerfulness, stuffing his fists into the pockets of his dark red jacket. "I'm gonna go find the nearest bridge and jump off. Nice meeting you."

He makes to turn away, but Derek reaches out and grabs the arm of his jacket, hoping to stop him.

"Wait," he pleads. "Please don't be embarrassed. Honestly, that was funny as fuck, and I am, like, so _beyond_ flattered. Can I at least know your name?"

Stiles pauses, sets his lips into a hard, thin line, turns back to face Derek, resolutely avoiding having to look directly at him, and sighs.

"It's Stiles," he says.

"Derek," he replies jovially, extending a hand for Stiles to shake, ridiculously formal.

"I know, dude," Stiles laughs, rolling his eyes. "You're like, _super_ famous."

Derek gives a half-hearted shrug, like he genuinely hadn't even noticed, and says, "Yeah, but am I cute?"

Stiles barks out a laugh, hastily covering up his mouth with the back of his hand. He rearranges his features into something akin to casual indifference, and says, "I mean… _I guess_ you could say that."

Derek laughs, quirking an appraising eyebrow as his gaze flits across Stiles's face, lingering at the curves of his collarbones just visible beneath a form-fitting v-neck henley, before dipping down to admire the cut of his torso. Stiles swallows thickly.

"You're cute, too," Derek says, his smile warm and genuine. "And you've got a nice voice."

Stiles's eyes widen. Oh fuck. That's right. Motherfucking _karaoke_.

"Oh my god, shut up, no I don't," Stiles laughs, shaking his head as he shoves his hands ever deeper into the pockets of his sweatshirt, absentmindedly kicking the toes of his trainers into the hardwood floor.

"No, I'm serious," Derek insists. Stiles chances a look up at him, heart leaping into his throat at the sweet sincerity he finds there. And then—

"You look so familiar," Derek says with a sudden, sharp intake of breath, head tilted to the side, brows furrowed in concentration as he scrutinizes the details of Stiles's face. "Have we met before?"

"Comp 311," Stiles replies with a shaky sigh.

"Oh my god, that's right!" Derek exclaims, realization dawning on him. "You were that smart-mouthed little shit who always got on Finstock's last nerve. Man, that guy hated you."

_Well_ , Stiles muses, _there are definitely worse ways to be remembered_.

"I like to think we had a love/hate relationship," Stiles chuckles, delighted over the simple joy of having made Derek laugh.

"Yeah, I _thought_ that was you. Didn't recognize you without the buzz cut," Derek reminisces. "You were pretty cute back then, too."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles quips with a hollow laugh. "There's no way in hell a guy like you ever looked twice at a guy like me."

A frustrated crease sets into Derek's forehead, lips twisted into a frown as his eyes bore into Stiles's, studying him like he's a puzzle he can't quite figure out. And what a ridiculous moment this is for Stiles to notice just how thick and full Derek's eyelashes are, to become mesmerized by the honest to god _sparkle_ that dances in his irises like a goddamn Disney prince.

"So," Derek says after a moment, ripping Stiles out of his reverie. "How'd I look?"

"Sorry, what?" Stiles shakes his head, genuinely confused.

"Your friends said you've thought about me naked," Derek says with a casual shrug, but the Cheshire Cat grin that spreads across his face is anything but. "Did I look good?"

Stiles's eyes widen in shock. Scarlet paints the pulse points across the hollow of his cheekbones and the base of his throat in bright, angry blotches. He opens his mouth, willing the perfect string of words to come and save him from the nightmare of a plot twist this conversation has taken, but all that comes out is a series of high pitched squeaking.

"Damn. That good, huh?" Derek bites his lower lip, and Stiles about _dies_ , because it is simultaneously the hottest and most adorable thing he's ever seen in his entire life.

"Well, I hope I live up to your expectations," Derek sighs around a barely contained smirk, and the blue screen of death flashes across Stiles's mind. "You wanna go out for coffee tomorrow, see where this goes?"

What?

_What?!_

This can't actually be happening. There's no way in _hell_ this is real. This is the part where Stiles wakes up, and realizes it was all just another dream. 

Derek pauses, eyebrows raised, waiting for his response. A string of unintelligible nonsense tumbles out of Stiles's mouth, none of it any actual words.

Derek chuckles softly, rummaging through the pockets of his leather jacket before withdrawing a bright blue pen, and scrawling his number on the back of Stiles's hand. Derek's fingertips curl into the palm of his hand, and Stiles forgets how to breathe.

"If you're interested, give me a call," Derek says, flashing Stiles a positively _radiant_ smile and giving his hand an affectionate squeeze, before turning on his heel and sauntering off in the direction of his beckoning bandmates.

Seconds later, Scott and Danny emerge from out of the shadows, clapping Stiles on the back and ruffling his hair, chanting a resounding chorus of _I told you so_.

"You're welcome," Danny says with a smug smile. 

"And now it's _my_ turn," he adds, taking off in hot pursuit of one of Derek's bandmates.


End file.
